


Honey

by MykEsprit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 13:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19426750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: For the cost of several hundred Galleons an ounce, L’odeur de l’argent by the high-end brand Wytch was Pansy’s preferred scent—until she realized how lovely the scent of warm honey can be. (Pansy/Hermione)





	Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Hermione's Haven Bingo 2019. As always, thanks to the lovely group admins for this event!
> 
> This story fulfills the G1 square, which pairs Hermione with Pansy Parksinon.

For the cost of several hundred Galleons an ounce,  _ L’odeur de l’argent _ by the high-end brand Wytch was Pansy’s preferred scent. It had top notes of jasmine and lily, a middle note of amber, and a base of something heavy that invoked power and authority; something, perhaps, that winked at its name.

She had worn it all her life. Ever since she had been tall enough to see over the counter of her mother’s dressing table and had spied the stout crystal bottle that housed it, she had been in love with that perfume.  _ Doused _ herself with it, as Draco had artlessly described in Fourth Year. (She had since taken painstaking caution in applying it lightly.)

It was the first thing she wore when she had dried off from a bath and the last thing she took off before she went to bed. 

Anything else was subpar. As she went about her day walking through the various smells of Diagon Alley—the sugary concoctions of Fortescue’s, the leather and polish of Quality Quidditch Supplies, the mustiness of Eeylops Owl Emporium—she covered her delicate nose with her hand, grateful for the dab of perfume on her wrist.

She cupped her hand even tighter as she was about to pass by Flourish and Blotts, for she absolutely despised the scent of books—moldy and stale, no matter if the book was old or new. 

Pansy was very focused on avoiding this offensive odor when she should have been paying more attention to her surroundings. This was her thought in the half-second right after being hit in the face with the shop’s door but before her arse smacked the ground.

“Oh!— Are you alright?”

She blessed Merlin’s pants that she  _ had _ been covering her nose with her hand; the door had aimed directly for her nose, and while her hand had taken the brunt of the force, her nose was throbbing. Not as bad as the throbbing of her sit bones…

A hand laid gingerly on her shoulder. “Pansy? Are you okay?”

Realizing that she had screwed her eyes shut through the ordeal, Pansy blinked her lids open and found herself nose-to-nose with…”Granger,” she growled.

A grimace flitted over Hermione’s face, which smoothed over in the blink of an eye. “You’re fine, then.” She held out her hand.

Pansy pointedly ignored it as she fought to stand up. “I  _ was _ fine,” she said, “until you threw that door in my face.”

“I didn’t see you,” Hermione said weakly.

Between the brightness of Hermione’s apologetic eyes and the embarrassed flush coloring her cheekbones a dusky rose, Pansy had momentarily forgotten about the affront. 

She had, at that moment, also forgotten that she was wearing her Bogumil Gull boots with the four-inch heels, which required a conscious effort to stay upright. This was her thought as she stumbled forward and into Hermione’s surprised embrace.

Pansy took a sharp inhale, ready to spew out a sharp insult. It was then that she realized that her boots had made her significantly taller than her former school rival, and her face had been cushioned by Hermione’s abundant curls. 

The lungful of air she breathed carried the loveliest scent of warm honey. It was not at all familiar; it did nothing to trigger any memories of her life, which was flavored with musk and fur and extravagant wealth. 

But it stirred something in her chest, and, for the first time in her life, she was certain she could produce a  _ Patronus _ .

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“Pansy….Pansy!”

She was jolted from her reverie, finding an irritated Millicent Bulstrode glaring at her from across the circular table. Pansy blinked. “What?”

“Are you going to help me plan this wedding or not?” Milly snapped. “Because I thought you’d be more of a help than my idiot cousin Melanie, but if you’re going to be doing this,”—she flicked her fingers towards Pansy—”all day, then I might as well have Smelly Melly be my maid of honor.”

Pansy tutted, placing her teacup and saucer back on the table. “Don’t be so dramatic, Milly. I was only thinking about the color scheme.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” The lie fell from her lips easily. “Won’t the color clash with the groom’s...entire family?”

Milly sighed. “I know. But he says it had been his childhood dream to get married in Chudley Cannons’ colors.”

Pansy snorted. “Well, I’ve always dreamed of being the bloody queen of England, but we can’t all get what we want, can we?”

“I do  _ not _ want to get married in orange robes,” Milly pronounced; and then, with a more sheepish tone, “But I also can’t say ‘no’ to Ron. He didn’t grow up like us, you know. He never really got what he wanted. He’s the youngest brother; everyone else’s wants and opinions came before his.”

“That doesn’t mean we should all suffer when the wedding photos come out.”

“I was hoping—” Milly shot her with a timid smile that quickly devolved into mischief. “Well,  _ I _ might not be able to say anything, but perhaps  _ you _ could do something about it.”

Pansy quirked an eyebrow.

“Meet with Ron’s maid of honor and—”

“I’m sorry.” Had she been sipping her tea, she would have promptly spit it out. “His  _ what _ of  _ what _ ?”

“Maid of honor.” Milly shrugged. “Ever since Harry broke up with Ginny, he and Ron have had a bit of a falling out.” She waved an arm dismissively. “It will all pass before the wedding, I’m sure. Until then, Hermione has taken over best man duties.”

“Granger?” Briefly, she was surrounded by the scent of warm honey.

“Talk to her,” Milly said. “Please. If I have to show my great-grandchildren these wedding photos, I’d rather we not look like pumpkin patch rejects.”

Pansy picked up her tea, making a show ruminating on this decision—even though her choice had been made ever since she heard Hermione’s name. “Alright,” she said with a theatrical sigh. “I’ll do it. Just so you don’t replace me with Smelly Melly.”

* * *

  
  
  
  


Warm honey flavored the air; but that was to be expected, seeing as this was Hermione Granger’s flat. Inside was simple yet tasteful. A cream couch lay under a wide window; it must have been a perfect spot to read in the afternoon. Photos lined the walls, and only half of them were ruined by Potter and Weasley.

“...think I can convince him to change it,” Hermione said.

Pansy turned back to find the brunette bent over a large binder on the kitchen table. The surface was littered with wedding invitation samples, cloth swatches, and multiple lists in her neat cursive handwriting.

“Violet, perhaps? Or maybe blue?” Hermione lifted her head, running her hand to smooth her hair, which she had put up in a bun.

Pansy’s eyes followed the movement. Her hands itched to release those curls from their trap; to see if they still smelled as heavenly as before.

“Pansy?”

Her gaze dropped to find a pair of curious eyes gazing at her.

“Violet or blue?” Hermione asked.

A memory of Hermione looking lovely in periwinkle flashed behind her eyes. Pansy took a step towards Hermione, her eyes again flicking up to her curls before settling on her bright brown eyes. A smile tugged on the corner of Pansy’s lips, teasing and challenging. “Blue.”

* * *

  
  


She was breathtaking in sapphire blue, a fact that Pansy resented only a little—for, by now, she had become a glutton to that warm honey scent and every lungful of that sweetened air.

The wedding went well—as well as any Weasley-Bulstrode nuptials could be. Milly was happy, at least. Weasley...well, Pansy could give an elf’s ear about what Weasley was feeling; as long as he continued to please her best friend, he would stay out of Pansy’s warpath.

“Care for a dance?”

Had she not finished her flute of champagne a minute ago, she would have spewed it all over her blue robes. But her luck had since turned since a Flourish and Blotts door slammed on her face, and she found Hermione standing before her with a pretty, but nervous smile.

In lieu of an answer, Pansy stood from her seat. She took Hermione’s hand and led her to the middle of the dance floor. They swayed to the bluesy rhythm of the live band, and for several bars of music, Pansy was in bliss as she held Hermione in her arms while the scent of warm honey gently caressed her.

That was, until she noticed the disappointed look on Hermione’s face.

“Something wrong?” Pansy asked, hoping that the swell of panic and self-doubt weren’t noticeable in her tone.

“It’s nothing,” Hermione mumbled.

Pansy twitched her eyebrow.

Her dance partner sighed. “It’s just...You’re not wearing your perfume.”

“Oh, I’ve stopped wearing it. The scent is really very strong, and it’s been getting in the way of your—” Realizing that she was rambling, Pansy pressed her lips together.

“That’s too bad.” A corner of Hermione’s lips turned up, and her eyes glimmered with something akin to coquetry. “I love the smell of your perfume.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos/Comments are appreciated.


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